Chapter 78: Veni, Vidi, Vici

"Veni, Vidi, Vici."
-Julius Caesar

Translated, the above means "I came, I saw, I conquered." At the end of my Canadian epic, that's kind of how I feel. I've traveled more than half the circumference of the globe. That's how vast this country is. So...how to sum it up? Superlatives won't do, so here are some highlights.

-days: 50
-kilometres: 20,628
-provinces: 10
-territories: 1
-national parks: 6
-UNESCO world heritage sites: 5
-best places to wonder at the beauty of it all: Tofino and Cape Breton Island
-best place to kill your liver: Halifax
-most likely to make you feel like a rock star: Montreal
-best surprises: Alberta badlands, and Saskatchewan's Great Sand Hills
-best place to get lost and never found: the Dempster Highway, Yukon
-best views from a car: Icefields Parkway, Alberta
-quirkiest place: Newfoundland
-best place to feel like a foreigner and love it: Quebec City

And the best part is, there's still so much more to explore. Here's to next time...who wants to come with?

Chapter 77: The best kept secret in Canada

I'm sure I'm biased, but before setting off on my cross-country epic, I was pretty sure the west was the most beautiful part of Canada. There have been amazing sights along the way, but I left Newfoundland more convinced of that than ever, particularly Tofino.

Suddenly a new contender entered the ring. Cape Breton island is stunningly beautiful, teeming with wildlife, both land and water-based, and compared to Tofino, it's relatively easy to find accomodations on short notice.

When explorer John Cabot arrived in 1497, he must have thought he'd stumbled on the world's best kept secret. The trail named for him winds around the top of the island, with sweeping coastal viewpoints accessible by car or hundreds of kilometres of hiking trails, overlooking waters teeming with lobster and whales.

I camped on a grassy plateau above a beach which was only accessible by a rope ladder. Being that I was the only one brave, or maybe foolish enough to climb down, I had the entire beach to myself. I took a swim, nearly stepping on a live lobster, and saw a few more at a glance. Looking out at the horizon, I spied a dozen pilot whales under a golden sunset.

It's the kind of place that would get much more acclaim if more people knew how special it is.

I'm glad they don't. It was a fitting end to an amazing trip.

Chapter 76: Near death experience

Prologue:

-Wild animals sighted: Buffalo, bears, deer, foxes, coyotes, caribou and a beaver
-Near death experiences: 1

Foreshadowing!

I have seen dozens of animals during the last seven weeks, but the moose have been invisible. I've seen a female, but not the more impressive male. Insert joke here.

Upon entry into Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland, I was greeted by this sign depicting a massive and apparently mange-ridden, homicidal moose crushing a car.

Also, a sign saying there have been 23 moose-vehicle accidents in the park this year. I've driven through dozens of moose territories without incident, so I didn't really pay much attention.

After seeing evidence of continental shift in the mountains of Gros Morne Park that proves Europe and North America were once one, I decided to embark on a crazy day of driving to see North America's first Viking settlement, to the north in L'Anse Aux Meadows, then a mad dash back to the ferry for Nova Scotia by 7am the next morning. That's about 400 km one way, then another 700 or so in the opposite direction.

That presented the problem of driving in the dark, when most moose encounters happen. This time, the decision to risk it resulted in a split second of sheer horror, followed by several hours of paranoia.

I got back to Gros Morne about 10pm. I was thinking about the long stretch of driving, and looking ahead for animals on the road. All of a sudden, a monstrous THING with long legs and massive antlers materialized out of the dark in my peripheral vision. No warning, no nothing. Thanks a lot Bullwinkle. I yanked the wheel to the right, and avoided it by maybe a foot.

I'm embarassed to admit that there's just the slightest possibility I may have screamed like a girl. I'm not sure. I stopped and looked back to see the thing trot into the woods. It was way bigger than Silken, and would have absolutely demolished her, with me inside. I can say without a bit of exaggeration that it was one of the most sudden and terrifying things I have ever experienced.

After allowing myself a brief sobbing spell, I calmly got back on the road. And spent the next 6 or 7 hours going roughly the same speed as a Conservative government tackling climate change.

I've seen enough moose now, thank you.

chapter 75: Alison in Wonderland; the Hali-Fax of life

"You take the good, you take the bad, you take 'em both, and there you have, the facts of life, the facts of life."
"The Facts of Life"

I know, cheesy. But this is my blog, deal with it.

Halifax is another one of those unique places that punches way above its weight class in the culture and creativity department. It's a small city with an angsty, artistic vibe, fueled by a mix of youthful disillusionment, underemployment, and beer. It has six universities, by far the highest per capita in Canada. Not surprisingly, it also has one of the highest concentrations of bars. The city's motto may as well be "fuck it, let's get wasted."

Anyway, I rolled into this tempest in a beer glass looking forward to re-connecting with my long-lost Africa colleague and partner in clumsy, drunken falls, Alison Lang. She lives in the gritty north end among idealistic twenty-somethings and down-and-outers whose ideas are pretty much limited to their next bender.

Unlike many Haligonians, Alison has a pretty decent job, but she still embodies the energy of her surroundings. She sings, er, screams, in a hard rock band named Peeler, with a guitar player named Mingus who likes to spit whiskey at the crowd. He looks pretty much exactly like you're imagining. I saw them at a bar called the Seahorse, which is fittingly decorated with demonic looking, red-eyed seahorses. Typically, locals decry the renovations that transformed it into the dingy rock dungeon it is now. Apparently, its previous grimy incarnation was way cooler.

Alison has an anchor tattoo on her shoulder and a scene from Alice in Wonderland on her back. Fitting, because as soon as I arrived, she pulled me down into her rabbit hole. I stayed at a hostel the first three nights, quickly meeting a typical cast of characters, ending the first night drunk at a neighbourhood dive bar. The next day, I met Alison after work, and we proceeded to drink in the park and catch up. She, somewhat like me, seems to have an unquenchable thirst to complicate her life. Basing a fictional character on her would almost be too easy.

Anyway, the week went by with drinking while relaxing in Halifax's many parks, drinking in bars, drinking at Alison's house and a trip to the famous lighthouse at Peggy's Cove. Legend has the town is named after the sole survivor of a shipwreck in a storm in the 1700's. The locals named her Peggy after she couldn't remember her name. Today, the lighthouse is a major tourist attraction. But wicked storms are a constant threat, and despite warnings posted all over the place, rogue waves typically drag several foolhardy visitors a year to their ultimate, watery demise.

I also got a chance to meet ex-Global National colleague Ross Lord for drinks, and another friend who offered me the use of her apartment for a couple nights.

So no, I didn't go to Lunenberg, and I didn't see this church or that Celtic band. But I did meet the locals who showed me the Hali-fax of life. It's a small city with deep cultural roots, boundless creativity, and a mild stench of fatalism that drives its people to live in the now.

Carpe diem, Halifax.

chapter 74: Uncharted waters

"Burning every bridge that I cross,
To find some beautiful place to get lost."
"Let's Get Lost" - Elliott Smith

Working the rat race can really make you misplace your perspective, and sometimes the only way to find it again is to get lost. And my much-anticipated first visit to the comparatively small Maritime provinces offered ample opportunity to do that.

I slashed my way into New Brunswick on Friday, August 13th, ironically leaving my horrifying French behind. I've made a point of avoiding cities, except where I have friends to reconnect with. At the risk of becoming a cliche, the land and the open road have really become my companions. It's as close to a spiritual experience as I come.

I'm not a great tourist as far as seeing specific landmarks; I prefer to watch people and check out the landscape to really get a feel for what that place is like. I've always believed going without a plan is the best way to get somewhere you've never been.

I dutifully checked out Hopewell Rocks along the Bay of Fundy, home to the world's most active tides. A hundred billion tonnes of water flows in and out every day, a differential of four stories.

At low tide you can walk on the muddy ocean floor and see fossils, and hours later the tides erase any evidence you were ever there. It's a pretty amazing sight, but you do fight the crowds.

After leaving, I drove around aimlessly for a while, checking out this dirt road or that viewpoint, and this where I started to see the true Maritime character. Most of the time, when you tell people you're lost, they'll help - but you have to ask. Not here.

A typical exchange:
"Are you lost?" a friendly local inquires.
"I'm trying to be," I grin.
"Oh. Okay." They smile, and back away slowly.

It sounds silly, but this is how I've been able to see some amazing, secluded spots that aren't on a map. I drove down an unmarked gravel road, and came upon a beautiful private beach.

Unlike much of the country, I wasn't warned about the risk of prosecution for trespassing. A sign simply said "Enjoy our beach, but please, take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints."

And that's the kind of thing a tour company can't sell.

Chapter 73: Escape from Montreal

After a week of debauchery in Montreal, I made it out alive and headed to Quebec City. If the former is stylish, sexy, and slightly tacky, the latter is the wise matriarch of French Canada.

Beautiful, but older, and much classier. Inside the walls of 400 year-old Vieux Quebec, you still get the same feeling of protection from an attack that might come from outside. She's a beautiful sight all lit up at night, and unlike Montreal, still looks good in the morning.

The history is amazing, and once you've been there, it's impossible not to understand how Quebec could be its own country, and why we should continue to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening.

After Quebec, I spent a day driving around the Gaspe Peninsula. It's rural, struggling economically and very Francophone. If you live here, you speak French first, last and always. There were vineyards, for sale signs and little fromageries everywhere. Despite economic hardships, they aren't giving up on the old standards.

I spoke to one woman who was so serious about her cheese, the fromagerie had actually funded research at the University of Laval to engineer cultures that are not only delicious, but also help your digestive tract. I made a lame attempt at a 'cultural' double entendre. She didn't laugh. Apparently, good taste also applies to humour.

Signposts:

-Kilometres driven: 16,000+

-free cheese samples eaten: 4

-French phrases butchered: countless

chapter 72: the greg johnson reality tour

1)Saskatchewan, reunion with friends, and a less scary picture of Regina than the one painted by Macleans magazine? Check.
2)Manitoba and a beery visit with former GN colleagues in Winnipeg? Check.
3)Ontario, long distances, speeding ticket (no longer down with OPP), expensive camping at Lake Superior, Toronto friends and business connections? Check.

I rolled into Canada's coolest city last Tuesday feeling pretty good. After picking up my pal Greg in Toronto, we jumped in Silken and made for la Belle Province and Montreal, leapfrogging the 13,000 kilometre barrier in the process. I hadn't been there in 20 years, and to fully OD on Montreal's cool, it helps to have a knowledgeable tour guide. Greg spent six years in Montreal going broke while partying too much and working too little, so he seemed like the perfect man for this challenging job.

I started calling it the Greg Johnson reality tour, and it's been as disgustingly, delighfully, drunkenly debaucherous as I could have hoped.

The living situation has been interesting to say the least. We stayed one night in a half-room in a tiny apartment while the regular tenant slept on a mattress in the living room. We've been at an empty fraternity house the rest of the time. And my bike got stolen. But I've seen a few of Montreal's hottest spots, basically been drunk and smoking (bad!) for five days straight, while eating things like poutine and huge smoked meat sandwiches. The city is what a doctor would prescribe for a patient with square-itis.

It's a whole different world than healthy-image conscious, rule obsessed, no fun Vancouver. You can buy beer at a corner store here. People eat poutine and fast food regularly. They go out practically every night. They drink way too much. They defiantly continue to disregard all sensible reasons to stop smoking. They litter. They park almost anywhere they want, and drivers will run you over if you step into the street without due care. They don't substitute work for having a life.

Nightlife is practically a career for a lot of people here. The streets are alive with good-looking, fashionable people from different age and income groups who stay out all night at stylish clubs. Then they go to the same cheap diners for all-day breakfast the next morning, looking much less stylish, much more haggard, and determined to do it all again. Montreal is like a sexy stranger who keeps you up and makes you wanna take chances with your health, rather than do the sensible thing and miss a night out.

After that, making the sensible choice doesn't seem to make much sense at all, does it?

Places I have slept:

-sandy beaches

-my tent at various camgrounds

-my car at a rest stop

-a hostel

-a gravelly driveway

-a luxury hotel

-a University dorm

-a mattress sized bedroom

-a frat house

chapter 71: The prairies: so flat you can see the future...or are they?

Honestly, the prairie provinces were the part of this trip I was least looking forward to. Okay, Edmonton sucks (sorry) but the rest of Alberta and Saskatchewan has been better than expected. From the ice fields to the badlands, to a virtual desert in the middle of farmer's fields, there is some breathtaking and unexpected mad scientist shit going on.

Driving north of Calgary, you go through flat, bright yellow canola fields, until suddenly a huge Arizona-like canyon opens up in front of you, which by the way, you can climb down into and get lost and sweaty for a couple hours. Ahem. Anyway, it's the start of the area of Alberta where more species of dinosaur fossils have been found than anywhere in the world.

Then, driving into Saskatchewan, the same thing happens, only this time it's sand hills where nothing really grows - think Saudi Arabia. A small piece of Saudi Arabian desert. But fewer sheikhs.

Les nombres:
-nights in hotel: 2
-with family/friends: 8
-nights camping: 10
-buffalo spotted: 4
-pairs of eyeglasses recovered: 1!
-kilometres traveled: 9,424

chapter 70: Dawson City time warp

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold
“The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service, Dawson City Poet

Northern BC is beautiful, but there is something both romantic and unsettling about the Yukon. The tourism slogan is “Larger than life”. It's vast and empty, but breathtaking. Comforting, yet unsettling, and stuck in a time warp in more ways than one.

I spent my first full day at the beautiful Tombstone Territorial Park. Even though I
knew about it, the midnight sun still took me by surprise. We time our lives to the setting of the sun subconsciously. I set up camp, went hiking, built a fire, and didn't even realize I was hungry until it was 10:30pm. Dusk came around 1am, then a couple hours of light grey, then the sun came out again. Weird.
The first casualty of the trip came on the amazing but treacherous Dempster Highway. The rutted gravel road that runs all the way to Inuvik, Northwest Territories ripped one of my tires to shreds, and cut short my bid for the arctic circle and the 'other' territory. After putting on a temporary tire, I decided the travel gods didn't want me there, and headed for Dawson City.

The Dawson City Music Festival is renowned for its lively vibe and friendly crowd. It's a strange feeling to party under perpetual daylight alongside refugees from the 70's. Long haired burnouts do their freaky dances beside bohemian girls in flower dresses, while packs of scruffy teenagers roam around hiding their beer and looking at girls. It's like the cast of “Dazed and Confused”, but it's not the 70's or the 90's.

Meanwhile, the rest of the city is stuck in the early 1900's. Old-timey facades have been re-created advertising an era long past, alongside new businesses disguised in turn of the century clothes. Everything looks new, but is supposed to be old. Nothing is real. Dawson City became the centre of the Canadian gold rush in the late 1800's, and a city sprung up almost overnight. Without tourism, nobody would be here, and the city would die almost as fast. So everyone lives in the past, and invites visitors to do the same – more information available on the internet of course! But that's not in the pamphlets.

By the numbers:
-kilometres traveled: 4,268
-bears sighted: 4
-police sirens heard: 0
-eyeglasses lost: 1
-flat tires: 1

chapter 69: the long road north

Day 6.

After having spent a couple beach days in Tofino-Ucluelet and then a couple more at my Dad's, Silken and I are tearing ass north. After leaving Parksville on Monday morning, I've spent the last two days driving nearly 1,500 kilometres, 8-10 hours on the road each day. I have to do about 1,800 more to get to Dawson city by Friday for the start of the music festival. I know, life is so hard. I never want to get out of the car, because the roads are empty and I can motor through while rocking out to a random selection of every album I've ever liked. Suh-weet.

Yesterday, I drove through the Stein Valley to Lillooet, and then today the Bulkley Valley and Smithers. I hiked to where two glacier-fed waterfalls converge and make an icy river. I stupidly waded in of course, and immediately froze.

There are so many amazing parks in BC, so camping has been a lot of fun. After a long day of driving, there's nothing better than taking some time to unwind, then staring at a campfire for a couple hours. Trust me, it's fun. Some more fun facts:
Kilometres traveled: 2,069
Animals killed: One bird (hit windshield)
Sunglasses lost: 1
Wrong turns taken: 2
Dirty looks from hitchhikers after I drove by: 7, or 8 if you count the guy I drove by twice after making a wrong turn

Minor bitches:
-when camping, everything, including the camper, is guaranteed to get smoky, plus wet or dirty or both.
-I am too lazy to duct tape the fabric on the car ceiling. The hole in it exposes me to a shower of fossilized adhesive particles every time I open the sunroof. Probably not too healthy. Fix this tomorrow, or if not possible tomorrow, at some point in the not-too-worried-about-it-future.

chapter 68: the Canada chronicles

I've done it. In just three weeks, I've redefined my existence (again). I've gleefully gotten rid of almost everything I own. I've irresponsibly left a good job. I've willfully disappointed some family, friends and colleagues. But in so doing, I've overthrown that fascist dictator we call “life”. And It's easier than you might think to spontaneously throw it all away. New slogan: Impatience – it's worth the wait.

Thursday, I threw my now-meagre possessions into my 1989 Volvo, my Swedish traveling companion, hereafter referred to as Silken. Silken is a boxy throwback with some mileage on her, but she's a chanp. And she's never been accused of cheating. First stop: Tofino.

This will be a truly epic journey. Canada is a hugely gifted, diverse, and of course, immense expanse of land. The distances are mind boggling. I've always thought of it as a travel buzzkill. Canadians have to go further than almost anyone else on the planet to reach exotic climes, especially Westerners.

But distance can be your friend. It's 2400 kilometres to Dawson City alone. That will be just a prelude of what's to come.

Silken and I will take our chances on bumpy logging roads through towering rainforests. We'll try to avoid gravel road showers under eerie constant daylight in the far north. We'll follow the ribbon of the Trans-Canada Highway on the backs of immigrant slaves, through wild mountains, and blood-red prairie sunsets We'll cruise gaudy, riotous cities in eight lane comfort. And we'll trace the rocky coastline that welcomed the first visitors to Canada.

I'm making playlists for the road as we speak.

chapter 67: the outsider

for him, getting comfortable is the itch that can't be scratched.

he wants to be loved, but can't accept it when it comes.

he's a compassionate psychopath.

he works hard to touch his dreams, but runs from daylight fantasies.

the familiar is terrifying, the unknown is exhilarating.

the darkened road must be followed.

chapter 66: that. was. awesome.

26.5 million people saw team canada take back our game, and a storybook ending to the games. that's 80% of the country. and it was the people, not the ioc or vanoc, who swept aside all the greed and hypocrisy an event like this can engender. and this is how they did it:

chapter 65: who are we?

the last week of unbridled patriotism has really left me wondering: who are we?

we are champions.

we can have our hearts broken.

we can proudly wear the maple leaf and not apologize. but everyone's invited all the same.

we aren't just happy to be here.

we expect the best of ourselves, and respect from others.

we aren't as quiet and unassuming as the world thought we were.

we are, in many ways, still finding our way.

what unifies us? it's always been hard to explain in words what it means to be canadian. but this week has shown the world that we are unique, and that's something to be proud of.

the world is learning something about us. so are we. we've always defined ourselves by what we are not.

we are not american.

we are not european.

we are not first nations, quebecois, chinese, indian, or any of the other dozens of cultures that make up the mosaic.

the truth is, we don't know exactly who we are yet.

and maybe that's how it should be, because we are always changing.

maybe it's that undefinable quality, that lack of an easy definition, that makes us special.

as the man said, we are more.

chapter 64: i've got a bad feeling about this...

remember katrina? the floods, the devastation, etc...and then it somehow turned into an even bigger nightmare for the people who managed to survive.

and that's what i'm afraid will happen in haiti. it's a country that was already living on the edge of oblivion. to paraphrase a colleague of mine, they had very little before the earthquake, now they have much, much less.

so what happens now? restlessness, check. hunger, check. thirst, check. looting, check. disease? roving gangs?

my job has often had me immersed in misery; through the filter of distance, but still...this just has a more visceral feel to it. and it could easily get worse. join me in trying to do what we can to stop that from happening.

http://www.redcross.ca/article.asp?id=000005&tid=003